


The London Vampire

by the_night_light



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_night_light/pseuds/the_night_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock takes on a case involving vampires, John is sure something is wrong with that picture. When Mycroft warns him Sherlock must drop the case, John is more than a little worried. When everything starts to go wrong, John and Sherlock are at the center of a plot that in a single instant will change everything between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grave Disturbance

I was going out that evening, but one look at Sherlock’s clients and I checked my watch, ignored the time and sat down in my normal seat. Sherlock glanced at me sideways and raised an eyebrow. I cleared my throat.

I’d been making a point lately of making my own life without Sherlock. The last couple cases had forced us together for weeks on end and I was feeling something like cabin fever. It was to the point that even Lestrade had commented on how we were like an old married couple who could finish each others sentences. To be honest that had only happened a handful of times. Could happen to anyone…

Or maybe not. The truth was we really had been spending too much time together and the problem wasn’t that it bothered me, the problem was that it didn’t.

But we weren’t talking about us – or me, that is. We were talking about the clients who were making me late to the pub that night.

There were four of them – one pretty young woman dressed all in black, one young man in a black suit, and two others in street clothes. Those last two hugged a large camera and a bag full of the odds and ends of a film crew. All four of them, from head to toe, was covered in dirt and all four of them sat there like they were terrified of something out there in the night.

“Well?” Sherlock said when no one said anything. The four jumped in their seats.

“Sherlock….” I said, then turned back to our clients. “You all look like you could do with a cup of tea? Yes?”

They nodded. “Yes.” Sherlock commented as I rose. “Grave robbing does work up the thirst, doesn’t it?”

“It wasn’t grave robbing!” Cried the girl.

“Then what was it?” Sherlock said.

Glancing at the others, the girl began, “My name is Sophia St. Roberts, Sam Lark is next to me and next to him are Larry Hutchins and Tom Foley. We’re _Ghost H(a)unters_ – ever hear of us?”

“No.”

“Yes.” I said. “You have a show –right? Go to all the most haunted spots in Europe?”

The girl almost smiled. “That’s right. We get on pretty well and even have a fan base now-a good one. We might break into the Americas or Asia soon…” Her voice trailed off. “So you must understand that we’re used to any creepy, spooky haunt you can dredge out-old hospitals, murder houses, the tower – we don’t get scared. Ever.” She paused. “Tonight, we got scared….Real scared.”

“Go on.” Sherlock said when she seemed to lose her focus.

“Right. Tonight was different.” She looked at me and the Sherlock. “We were trying to come up with something different – not the same old spots all the other shows have done and Sam here likes to read so he said we should base a couple shows on some popular novel. We all love vampires – who doesn’t? They sparkle, they start rock bands; how bad can they be?” She laughed bitterly and the other three shivered.

“You started with _Dracula_.” I said and the girl nodded.

“Yes. Everyone knows the story, we could get footage from old movies – we thought it’d be awesome. We don’t have the budget to go to Transylvania, so…”

“So you stayed closer to home.” Sherlock provided. “Staring in Essex, to be precise.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “How did you…” She laughed and shook her head and some of the fear seemed to ebb out of her. “Amazing. You really are just how they say, Mr. Holmes. Yes. We went to Essex two days ago-Dracula supposedly hid his boxes of earth there, you know, in “Carfax Abbey” – that’s Purfleet village in the “real world”…Whatever that is.”

“Did you find something?”

“Yes. We found something. A local brought us to a church with a strange, foreign coffin that he said belonged to Dracula. When he opened it for the cameras, there was no body, only earth. It was great! We were sure the old man must have just filled it himself for the tourists, but it made a great shot for the show. And then, when we left, as a souvenir, Sam here reached in and bagged a handful of dirt. Nothing happened-not then. It was only when we got back to London and tonight were filming at the spot where Lucy Westerna – Dracula’s first British bride-was buried. As we were finishing, Sam pulled out the dirt he’d taken at Purfleet and let it fall on the cemetery ground –you know, a tribute.”

“And that’s when something happened?”

The girl nodded and started to shake. “Yes. Something happened. Something terrible-and impossible.”

Sherlock stood. “Show me.” He said.

The girl nodded and gently reached over to the young man in the black suit who had been sitting so silently at her side. She pushed back his collar and he let his head fall back. Both Sherlock and I leaned in for a closer look.

“Jesus Christ.” I said of the puncture marks on the young man’s throat.

At my side, Sherlock grinned.


	2. A Free Lunch

The crew refused to leave until morning, so we made the best of it. I finished making tea and did my best to dress Sam’s wounded neck. He was lucky the attack hadn’t severed the artery, but the muscle was damaged and bruising badly. As I worked, Sherlock interviewed them all again and demanded their film from the London Cemetery along with that from Essex. He watched it silently as I did my best to manage our guests. At least by the time they left Bakers Street, they had showered and I had provided Sam with one of Sherlock’s shirts since his own was bloody. They had all then had been fed by a solicitous Mrs. Hudson who had made a feast of sausages and eggs for us all that morning.

Before they left, Sophia surprised me by hugging me and thanking me for my care of Sam. I only realized when they were leaving, as Sophia wrapped her arm around her colleague’s waist that she was deeply in love with him. “We’ll call you tomorrow with anything we find.” I promised and fished a card from my wallet. “Call this number if you need. Detective Inspector Lestrade owes Sherlock a favor or two – just mention his name. He’ll help you.”

When they were gone, I turned back to Sherlock who was working to pull a sample from Sam’s bloodied shirt collar with a pair of tweezers. “So?” I said. “Vampires?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed briefly to me, then back to his work. “Apparently.”

“Someone trying to scare them? Maybe an angry fan?”

“It does have more credence than being the work of the walking undead, doesn’t it?” Having extracted his sample, he looked up at me. “I need to go to Bart’s lab, John.”

“Alright. I’ll go with you.”

“No. I need you to return to the cemetery and investigate. We’ll meet back here tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“I believe you were the one who said we were spending far too much time together than is healthy, John.”

“Ah – I did say that.”

“Good. Then we’re agreed. Tonight!” He called behind him as he pulled his bag of samples together and the door shut behind him.

“Tonight.” I said to the empty flat and tried to ignore the odd sense of loneliness that followed. Then, leaving the dishes in the sink, the tea cups on the table, I wrapped my scarf around my neck, grabbed my coat and made my way into the daylight.

I had meant to go to the station and catch the train, but found myself making a detour to a resale bookstore where I picked up a copy of _Dracula_. I could have downloaded it on my phone, but something about the case called for something more traditional. I hadn’t read the book in years and although I could remember the bare outlines of the plot, I thought it best to jog my memory on the details. I was about to pay for the book when the clerk shook his head and said someone had just called and paid for it over the phone. “Who?” I said, but even as the clerk shrugged, I had looked out the store window and out onto the street. As I saw the black Mercedes pull up to the curb, I had my answer.

The best thing about being picked up at random by the unofficial head of the British government is that it saves cab and train fare. I can’t complain about that. Anthea didn’t say a word after she confirmed that Mycroft wanted to talk with me. Instead, she handed me two paper takeout sacks and a cup of coffee and then retreated back into her seat to type furiously upon her Blackberry. We finally stopped and the doors were opened for me. There I was at my destination-the cemetery-and there was the older Holmes brother, standing alone and in the rain with his umbrella unfurled.

“John.” He greeted. “Lovely to see you. I see you have lunch.”

I glanced down at the two bags in my hand. “It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”

“Brunch.” He corrected and with a huff made his way to me and put the umbrella over us both. “I heard my brother has taken a case.”

My eyes widened. “How do you know that? We just took it on last night – well, this morning really.”

He smiled. “I have my ways. But tell me: What does Sherlock think of it? Does he lend it any credence?”

“You mean the vampire?” I eyed him. “Do you think he _could_ take a vampire seriously? I mean, it’s Sherlock we’re talking about.”

“Yes. It is.” He stopped. “I worry, as you know – and after my brother’s last case, I worry about the extremes he will go to…”

“Sherlock always goes to extremes with a case. I don’t think he knows any other way to investigate a case than to extremes.”

Mycroft adjusted his umbrella. The wind had picked up. “No. I mean the extremes he will go for you, John.”

I felt myself go red and tried to hide it, inextricably, by clearing my throat. “You heard about that?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What indeed? What you perhaps cannot know is that the fact that my brother has taken such an interest in another human being is a minor miracle. The fact that he risked not only his case, but his reputation, his career and perhaps his life for you on that case confounds me…However, whether or not you can comprehend this is irrelevant. What is relevant to the current situation is the fact that it is imperative you convince Sherlock to let this case go. For his sake – and your own.”

“Why?”

Ignoring my question, Mycroft continued, “I will even provide an alternative case for him, should he feel the need to exercise his mental facilities in some other arena.” Shouldering his umbrella, he pulled a memory stick from a pocket. “The man’s name is John Winter. He is dangerous. Tell Sherlock that. He’ll like it.”

“Alright?” I said in my confusion and Mycroft patted me on the back, took one of the takeout bags from my hands and departed. After a second of debate, and mostly because I had been abandoned here, I thought to make the best of it and carry out my investigation as planned. I’d think over what Mycroft had said. It wasn’t like him to warn us off case…Nor provide lunch, or brunch, I suppose – a pizza that reeked of garlic.

  
With a shrug I quickly ate it, drank the rest of the coffee and made my way across the cemetery towards the mausoleum in the distance. I figured Mycroft’s warning or Sophia’s story must have unsettled me more than I realized for the whole time I swore I could feel the sensation of someone’s eyes on me- a primal feeling of being watched…


	3. The Harvest of the Demeter

I had the memory stick in hand when I walked through the door and up the seventeen steps of 221B that evening. Not that I had to chance to say a word about it, for as I opened the door to the flat, I saw that Sherlock was rather occupied.

“Do come in, John.” My friend said as I hesitated at the door.

Three familiar faces and one unknown turned my way. Sophia St. Roberts and Sam Lark seemed somehow more unsettled than they had the previous evening as they looked up at me with owlish eyes. Lestrade was there as well and I could tell by the exasperated set to his jaw that he must have been speaking with Sherlock for some time. The fourth man, a bearded, older man in a blue sweater, soft cap and handcuffs regarded me with sharp, pale blue eyes.

Sherlock turned back to his sometime-colleague. “Are we done here, Lestrade?”

“You know we aren’t.” The inspector answered and gestured to the young couple with a thumb, “If he runs it’s on me.”

“He will not run. You have my guarantee.”

“Yeah. I was worried you’d say that.” Lestrade ran a hand over his mouth. “Fine. You have one day, Sherlock – One day to prove he isn’t involved or I’ll book him myself and head over here for a friendly midnight drugs bust and I promise if I come, I’ll find something.” So saying, he rose and pulled the old man to his feet. Together, they exited.

I came to sit next to Sherlock as he addressed Sam, “You won’t run, will you?”

The young man, looking miserably, shook his head. “I’m innocent. I never even heard of the _Demeter_ or any of this until tonight, Mr. Holmes!”

“No. I imagine you have not. Even so, I advise you to stay put and do nothing rash.”

Sam glanced out the window and his hand wandered to his throat. “The sun’s going down.” He said and turned to Sophia. “We’d better go.”

She nodded and they rose to leave. I tried to wish them the best, but the girl only threw an angry look my way as she helped the young man along. In wonder I stared at the door as it closed behind them, then at my friend. “What in the world was all that about?” I said.

“What indeed?” He said then clapped his hands together in delight. “I couldn’t have asked for a more intriguing case, John!”

“Oh- is that so?” I said, the memory stick still in hand.

“It is so. Lestrade wants to arrest our client.”

“And that…is a good thing?”

“Yes. Last night our clients come to us claiming they were attacked by nothing less than a blood sucking corpse – a vampire-and tonight Lestrade comes to arrest Sam Lark on orchestrating a great scheme that involves a lost Eastern European treasure trove.”

“Eastern European?” I said. “You wouldn’t mean Romanian?”

“You mean Transylvanian?” Sherlock was smiling in rare delight. “Perhaps. Lestrade had arrested the captain-the man you saw here tonight. He almost arrested our client when he and Sophia called on him today.”

“They approached him?” I said with dread. “No wonder Sophia glared at me like that! I told them to call him if they had any trouble.”

“Yes. But it couldn’t have worked out better for us! Lestrade said someone had called a tip that the crew of the small plane _Demeter_ was missing and when the authorities investigated they found no crew alright – but they found a fortune in stolen gold and art instead. By mere chance I was at Scotland Yard today and saw the whole thing. That captain – that bearded chap here tonight- was being booked by Lestrade when Sophia and Sam arrived. You should have seen the way the captain screamed when he saw him.”

“That bad, huh?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fortunate for them, I was there. I got Lestrade to come back to Bakers Street and got the story out of them. Even so, I have only delayed the inevitable.”

“Then you don’t believe he has never heard of the _Demeter_?”

“I believe he’s never heard of it. I believe he is innocent. But even so – he is involved and more so, he is in the greatest danger.”


	4. “The Dream” or “A Midnight Meeting”

With a sigh I put the memory stick on my bedside that evening as I got ready to sleep. I suppose even if there had been a chance to speak to Sherlock about it before he hurried breathlessly out into the night, I don’t know if I could have done it. This case was interesting, no doubt, but it had also been a long time between our last case and this one. Perhaps it was normal for Sherlock to withdraw into his normal listlessness and depression, but there was something about that last case that had changed something between us. It had upset a balance and I don’t think either of us knew what to do with this new and uneven ground. I had retreated from Bakers Street as much as I could and Sherlock had, no doubt for my own benefit, remained steadfast and silent on the matter.

Even so, there were times when I looked up from my laptop, or from my breakfast and saw him watching me, seemingly on the verge of speaking.

So I had said nothing perhaps because for the first time in so long he seemed himself again. However, Mycroft was not the type to meet people in cemeteries with idle warnings. I knew I had to at least tell Sherlock what his brother had said-and soon.

But not tonight.

Instead, I lay back, did my best to clear my troubled mind, and closed my eyes.

Immediately, I heard a pounding on the door and snapping awake, I jumped out of bed and made my way to answer it.

At first I thought it was Sam Lark standing there on the threshold of the opened door, but on second glance, he was slightly older, slightly thinner and his eyes were not brown like our client’s, but a phosphorous green. “Dr. Watson?” he said and I noted also unlike our client, he was an American.

“Yes?” I answered.

“You must come with me immediately – it is about your friend – Sherlock Holmes – he needs your help!”

Feeling stupid and muddled as if I were half asleep, I nodded and pulling on my coat and shoes, hurried after the fellow. “What has happened?” I demanded as we boarded a cab and the London streets turned into a streak of multifaceted light outside the windows. “Who are you?”

Calmly, he answered, “I am John Winter, Dr. Watson. And I am here to help.”

“Help Sherlock?” I said, still finding it, to my greatest annoyance, hard to put two thoughts together.

“Yes. And you. For you both rush off without a thought of where you are going and what waits for you at the end. Mycroft Holmes can be so clandestine. It is a character flaw, no doubt.”

The cab stopped seconds later and impossibly, I found that we were at the cemetery I had gone to that morning. I tried to account for the lost miles, how we had left the city limits in minutes, but I could no more do this than I could help but follow the mysterious John Winter out into the night.

He had taken my hand and led me past the moon-soaked gravestones, those monuments to time and those stone angels that seemed alive with the movement of the shadows of trees rustling in the wind. We entered the mausoleum. “I tell you now that neither of you are ready for what you will find if you pursue this case, Dr. Watson. In this matter I have the upper hand for I tell you I know what you two can only imagine and I believe what you both think to be impossible. In that is mortal danger. You must drop this case.”

“I don't understand...” I said and his cold hand tightened on mine.

“You must understand! If you do not, it will mean a fate worse than death.” He gestured and I looked past him to see, to my great amazement, Sherlock holding down a figure on the stone floor of the mausoleum. This other man was horribly familiar, but I struggled to recognize him. My friend’s lips were on this man’s throat and I noted the scarlet flow of blood. It was only when Sherlock turned to me, his lips drawn back from sharp teeth that I realized the man in his arms was impossibly, but undoubtedly myself with eyes closed and mouth open and gasping…

I felt a scream burst from my throat and the next instant I was back at Bakers Street, in my own bed, struggling with the real Sherlock as he shouted my name and grabbed at my wrists. “John!” He cried again and this time I heard him. I stared at him, his wide, strangely affected blue eyes and then at his hands. They were covered with blood.

“What…?” I gasped. “What…?” I shrank away from him and felt a sudden burst of pain. Reaching up, I touched the side of my throat, felt the ragged wounds there, and the unmistakable warm flow of my own blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued...


	5. Three Calls for John

The next day, my cell phone woke me. It had been going for some time, but I finally had gathered the necessary will to do more than read the caller-ID and actually pick it up. “Mycroft…?” I mumbled.

“Have you given Sherlock the thumb drive?” He said.

“Good Morning.” I managed.

“Then you haven’t.” He paused and there was something strange in the way he said it. Worry, perhaps? Fear, unlikely. “Why not?”

“Bad dream.” I said, but before he could get another word in, the phone was plucked from my hand, tossed on the bed and Sherlock was saying something awful like we had to get started, lots to do! or perhaps not. It was rather hard to focus. I did, however, register I had slept in Sherlock’s room. I just couldn’t remember why.

However, despite the initial rush, he did take much time in sitting me down in the dining room and unwrapping the thick bandages on my throat, on cupping my chin and tipping my head so he could examine it. “Sherlock…?” I croaked.

“Right.” He said and swiftly cleaned and reapplied the bandages. “Now, eat. We don’t want to be late.”

“We?” That didn’t sound right. It wasn’t supposed to be “we” anymore, was it? Then I blinked and realized there was a plate on the table with eggs and sausages and toast and coffee. “You made breakfast?"

“I thought you’d be hungry.”

I eyed the perfect bubble of the egg yolk, the suspicious, plump grain of the sausage. “I’ve never seen you cook.”

“I am a chemist, John. Not much of a leap.” I laughed and was going to question how then could he not make a decent cup of tea, but instead I grimaced. Sherlock stepped close, his hand on my arm. “What is it?”

“I…” I said and pushed the plate away as the delicious scent of it sent a wave of nausea roiling through my stomach. “I guess I’m not very hungry.” I looked up at him and his expression seemed to close off. I frowned. “And late for what?”

As it turned out, the first appointment we were late for was with a records keeper in the very bowels of Bethlam Royal Hospital. “Rather removed from…everything.” I commented as we descended the darkened halls.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied

“Sensitive information, I suppose?”

“Sensitive man.”

I wondered on that until we entered the room and at the sound of the door, the little man in the tweed suit jumped. He made us stop and change shoes because our footfalls were too noisy. He even frowned at the sound of cloth shifting when we gestured. The whole thing turned stiff rather quickly with neither of us daring to move. Sherlock finally pulled out paper and started writing, the man bit at his fingernails as if the scratch of the pen unbearable. However, he nodded at the question written and a second later he had a file in hand which he presented rather delicately to Sherlock and then, with a quiet smile and a silent wave, sent us away.

“Sam Lark was a patient here.” Sherlock said when we were ensconced into a taxi.

“And the condition for which he was being treated…?”

Whatever it was he was going to say next was interrupted by his cell phone going off. He pulled it out and without a glance at it, handed it to me.

“What….?” I said, but answered it when Sherlock went about reading Sam Lark’s file. It was Mycroft.

“So when you say “bad dream”.” Mycroft said.

“What…? Oh. This morning.” I replied. “I meant I was…”

“Attacked?”

“I suppose that’s what it was. In a way-”

“John. Give Sherlock the drive.”

“We’re not at Bakers Street.”

“I know.”

“Then why…?”

“When you return. Give it to him – tell him….” But at that point, Sherlock had plucked the phone from my grasp, opened the window and tossed the phone into the street.

“Sam Lark,” He said as if he hadn’t tossed his phone, as if I wasn’t staring at him in the obvious pantomime of questioning his sanity, “Had been hospitalized for five years in Bethlam Royal, John. Catatonic schizophrenia that was unresponsive to the usual treatments. He didn’t speak once during that time.”

“You realize I don’t have my phone, either.”

“Focus, John.”

“What if someone needs to call us?”

“If they really need to get in touch, believe me, they will.”

“Really?” I glared at him. “Fine. I'll keep an eye out for the Sherlock Signal, shall I? And focus on what exactly?”

“Keep up, John. I was talking about Sam Lark - Five years with no change, then, six months ago, he is miraculously cured – One month later, he is hired as co-host with the fledgling “Ghost H(a)unters” and now he finds himself under suspicion of international theft, not to mention under suspicion of preternatural dealings with a vampire.”

“It sounds to me he went from madness to a mad man’s dream.” I commented.

Sherlock’s eyes widened then and he seemed to measure and dismiss a thought in a moment’s time. Instead he continued, “Perhaps, but it doesn’t help connect the threads of our case.”

“I thought that’s what makes a case more interesting for you?”

My friend’s gaze flickered onto the bandages at my throat and then, turning away, he muttered, “Not this time.”

Our second late appointment that day was with Lestrade and the captain of the _Demeter_. The old man sat quietly as we came near, but his eyes were on me and the bandages on my throat. “How’d that happen?” He asked and gestured with a chained hand.

“We are here to discuss you, not the doctor.” Lestrade warned.

“I will not say a damned word until you tell me how you got that injury. Or better yet…” He licked his lips. “Show me.”

“I…” I began, but Sherlock interrupted.

“Do as he asks, John.” He said and so I did, unwrapping the length of gauze until my neck was fully exposed. When it was, when the puncture marks were revealed, the captain cried out, rocked backwards and then collapsed upon the table, his face in his hands, his breath coming hard.

“If you want me to talk, get him out of here.” He said and gestured wildly, his chains singing.

“Why?” Sherlock replied, his own posture controlled, tense, waiting for the answer.

“Because he’s _his_ that’s why. Mind, body, soul – that’s why!” His breathing had turned ragged, his face pale.

“Calm yourself,” I began, recognizing an asthmatic when I heard one. I reached out to him, to reassure him that as a doctor I could help….But he had stood in one panicked motion, pushing me down and taking my throat between his fingers, cursed me and Sam Lark and then all the world and heaven and hell. This new attack, combined with the previous night left me disoriented and unable to rise, even when Lestrade had a constable pull the raving man from off me and Sherlock was leaning over me in concern. “Asthmatic…” I mumbled. “He needs….”

But whatever the captain needed, I could only trust would be provided. Everything had gone dark again-except of course, my dreams.

In this dream, I was back in Bakers Street, awakening on Sherlock’s bed and my cell phone was ringing. When I reached to answer it, I instead found myself face to face with John Winter, the man from the previous night’s nightmare. He looked sadly upon me with luminous eyes.

“I warned you not to pursue this case.” His hand drifted to my throat and I knew the bandages were gone. His touch was cold against my skin. “I suppose I could ask again.” He smiled and I realized I wasn’t surprised that his teeth were long and sharp and not human at all. “But I think there is another way to guarantee your cooperation, Dr. Watson.”


	6. Water, Water Everywhere

When I woke the next morning, I was in Bakers Street, in Sherlock’s bed and my phone was ringing. Instead of answering it, I rolled out of bed and returning to my room, found the jump drive waiting on my nightstand.

I found Sherlock downstairs.

He was speaking to a frightened Sam Lark and a furious Sophia St. Roberts. “You’re saying he is innocent, but he should give himself up?” Sophia shouted, her arms tied between Sam’s arms.

“Exactly.” Sherlock said and his eyes flickered to me as I leaned against the doorway to the room.

“He can’t…” Sophia said and her voice broke.

“He must.” Sherlock turned his attention to Sam himself. “How much you yourself know, Sam, I will not speculate. However, you must know that you are a pawn in a dangerous game with a dangerous man. Your only chance to survive this encounter is to trust me.”

“Sam, you don’t have to listen….”

Sherlock said nothing, merely caught and held the gaze of the young man until, weakly, unwillingly, he nodded. “There are many things about my situation that confuse and terrify me, Mr. Holmes, but I do trust you. I will do anything you ask if you can save me.”

“That is exactly what I will do.”

“Thank you.”

“Lestrade is expecting you.”

Sam nodded and whispered something to Sophia who shook her head and clung to him all the tighter. Finally, they stood, but Sam hesitated. “Mr. Holmes, I have told you the truth, I have no idea what is happening now – not in this case and not to myself – but I fear for you, sir. And….” He turned his head and nodded at me as if he had known I was there all along. He cleared his throat. “Please promise me you’ll protect yourself-promise me you’ll believe the unbelievable.”

And with that, the young lovers departed.

When the door had shut, I pushed away from the door-frame and making my way to Sherlock grabbed his hand and placed the thumb drive into it. I felt a moment of true triumph right before I collapsed onto the floor.

I drifted back to consciousness soon enough, Sherlock’s face loomed over mine, pale and frightened for a mere blink of an eye, then impassive once more. Silently, he helped me up and laid me on the couch and vanishing, returned again with my medical kit. “You’re bleeding.” He explained as he unwound the gauze from my throat. When it was revealed, I felt him stiffen.

“What is it?” I whispered and then, when he didn’t reply. “Sherlock? Is it infected?”

“It is doubled.” He said and I felt his fingers brush against my throat. I gasped. “John. When did this happened?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “I dreamed it.”

“You…dreamed it?”

“Your client said to believe the impossible.”

“Indeed.” Pretending he didn’t read the fear in my eyes, he returned to his work, cleaning and re-wrapping my throat. When he was done, he held up the memory stick and lifted an eyebrow.

“Mycroft said you needed to see it.”

“Why?” I shook my head and watched the room swim into swollen, shifting shapes. “Are you alright?” Sherlock said. I felt his hand on my arm.

“Thirsty.” I said.

Nodding, he brought me a cup of water and fished out my laptop, explaining it was closer than his was, but not explaining how he always seemed to know my passwords. I stared down at the jostling water in my hand as he examined the files on the drive. I sniffed it, brought it to my lips, took a small drink….and immediately spat it out. Sherlock’s head snapped back to me. “Swallowed wrong.” I lied. His eyes narrowed, but he returned his attention back to the laptop, leaving me to stare at the water in confusion. I really was thirsty – my throat felt dry, my lips felt dry…

I set the glass down without another sip.

“This is very interesting.” Sherlock said.

“What?” I replied as Sherlock sat in front of the couch and moved his head so I could see the laptop screen. “Either Mycroft has finally lost it – a satisfying thought, albeit sadly unlikely – or this John Winter is a very interesting man.”

“How so? Who is he?”

“An assassin, it appears. And a world-class thief, a spy, a hacker on occasion. He is whatever is needed under any circumstance and his success rate is always 100%.”

“So what is his most current title?”

“None of the above. According to this, he approached the British government with an offer of his services in return for his own orchestrated disappearance.”

“From whom?” I paused. “Wait. That explains…nothing. This Renaissance killer-man entangles Sam Lark in an international art theft so the British government will help him vanish? It makes no sense.”

“You left out the fact he attacked you.”

“Did he? I’m pretty sure I dreamed that.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Was his offer accepted?”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered as they rapidly read through the text on the screen. “They refused him – the conclusion was monomania – and the fear he was uncontrollable…and undead.”

“Does it actually say that?”

“Yes.”

“Now that’s a bullet for Mycroft’s PowerPoint presentation.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock said and closed the laptop.

“Now what?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock confessed, “I don’t know. I need to think.” He caught sight of the cup, untouched by my side. “You said you were thirsty.”

I shrugged. “I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t eat or drink anything yesterday.”

“I must have!”

“No.” He stood and picking up the glass, held it out. “Drink.”

I laughed uneasily. “Why? I’ll drink later.”

“Now.”

I was going to question this strange order, but the look on my friend’s face was absolute and so, with a sigh, I reached out and taking hold of the glass once more, tipped it back, filling my mouth.

The reaction was immediate. I spat and wretched up the water I had managed to swallow. The glass fell from my fingers, shattered and I felt Sherlock’s hand on my shoulder, gentle as I brought myself under control once more. “I’m alright, I’m alright….” I assured him.

He studied my face silently, then bending, began to collect the pieces of the broken cup. I closed my eyes, leaning back into the couch. Indeed, I was half back to sleep when I heard Sherlock curse and opened my eyes to see him shaking a hand in the air. “You cut yourself.” I said.

“Astute observation.” He growled and made to grab the medical kit he had originally brought for my benefit. “John?” He said and I realized I had taken hold of his arm and had pulled him closer to the couch and to myself.

“What?” I said and watched in the curious way one does in dreams when you observe yourself rather than directly act, I found that I had pulled the bloody hand to my face, was running my tongue against the salt of my friend’s skin and finally brought my lips to it and from that feeble and all-satisfying font, drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued...
> 
> The plot thickens :) Thank you very much for reading! Stay tuned for the next chapter, hopefully to be posted faster than these last two :)


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